Against the Dying Light
by Tardis-Version 3
Summary: He ran from his old life. He ran from his family, he ran from his friends and he ran from everything he held dear. He ran from what it meant to be Harry Potter: he's still running as fast as he can. Yet the past has a funny way of catching up to you, and as blood and tears steadily pool beneath him the Reaper can run no longer.
1. What's in a name?

**A/N: Welcome to a new creative endeavour of mine! Against the Dying Light is a story I've wanted to write ever since I took over this account, but I lacked the motivation to do so. It wasn't a priority: but as school-break rolled around and my level of education begun to brush the depths of seriousness I decided that I could use my free time to try and improve my style of writing and my capabilities through a fictional story. And consequently, I found the motivation.**

**Before I even start, I wouldn't even have made this chapter readable without the diligent efforts of my BETA readers: Cordelia Rose and EternallyBellaCullen. Trust me when I say that without them this wouldn't have been remotely readable. Check them out if you have time, because I'm extremely grateful to them.**

**Please rate/review if you enjoy the story, as it's a great motivation to write more.**

The bar was a quaint little place, on the corner of a neighbourhood that was known for its fair share of brutal violence. There were no signs or fancy decorations-it was simply a building made out of plain bricks, with a simple wooden door and basic windows. It didn't catch anyone's eye-in a town abundant with tasteless graffiti and cheap prostitutes, a plain building with no signs whatsoever was overlooked by any passer-by. Most of the buildings in the neighbourhood prompted disgust and distaste-this building prompted nothing whatsoever.

However, the inside was quite the opposite. The benches were made of handcrafted wood, reminiscent of olden times that still wafted a pleasant pine smell to Kevin's nose. In fact, the bar would have perhaps been an orgasm for the nose had it not been for the strong stench of tobacco drifting through the bar. The chairs were extremely rigid, fitting in with the olden theme. The bar was extravagantly furnished, with symbols and carvings giving the plain, ashen wood intricate detail and breathing life into what would simply have otherwise been a dull surrounding.

The symbols were unidentifiable-most of them seemed almost malevolent in nature, with pentagrams and stars and other various shapes with seemingly no meaning whatsoever filling the walls. However, instead of creating a sense of hostility they brought forth a crest of positive emotions, in particular a very prominent calming sensation, as though the symbols were benevolent in nature. The wood was tinged slightly red in these areas, probably to ensure a sense of impact away from the beautiful walls.

The whole surrounding was as if something had been taken from high society in the 17th Century: a tribute to olden times. It stunk of aristocracy, and the smells in the bar immediately stimulated a quaint sense of inferiority. That, despite being located in perhaps the most unpleasant of places, you were not worthy to set foot in such a fine establishment.

Kevin Hitchcock had no idea how he had wound up in this particular establishment. He had simply been roaming around the neighbourhood in a sombre stupor, with his head hung low. His body language indicated that he was a man that had been battered and bruised by the world, but instead of emerging stronger he had gradually regressed into a shadow of his former self.

He supposed it was natural though. His life had been bright in childhood: being brought up in a poor neighbourhood made him understand the importance of hard work, and he had strived to make a name for himself. He finished school with respectable marks and found himself a job as a salesman, making enough money to fuel his dream of one day moving from the slum he currently resided in.

Unfortunately, the harsh reality of the world was that no matter how hard you work, those with prominent talent will always achieve higher than you.

Struggling to persuade customers to buy residential homes, his job had quickly been taken by a young and upcoming, charismatic salesman, who could make people buy their own shit with a simple smile.

Unemployment had left Kevin without a leg to stand on, and the void in his life quickly grew larger. His girlfriend, no longer freeloading off a stable income, had left him a mere hour after he had told her the news. She had told him "only men with money attract girls in this neighbourhood". Kevin had felt like the only good thing that had remained in his life had been torn away from his fleeting grasp,

The void in his heart suddenly grew ravenous for warmth and care, and Kevin had prayed for help, to provide him with a glimmer of hope in the dark abyss that had become his life, swallowing up everything good and leaving a reality that was more a nightmare. But no hope came-and in the end it was alcohol that kept Kevin content enough not to take a knife to his throat and, in one decisive action, end his miserable life.

So he had become another part of the crowd, a drunk, unemployed young man without prospects in his life, living in a town dominated by crime, abuse, drugs and alcohol. Born a lowlife, and would most likely die a lowlife.

He had enough money for a glass of strong scotch, with a taste so powerful it could make him drown his sorrows in a simple gulp. Strong alcohol was far more effective in achieving this goal. Still, he licked his lips as he looked at the other assortment of drinks that the bar provided, and commanded his taste buds to create a sense of how they would taste.

The glass bottles lining the wall were stylishly ordered by size, fitting inside the crystal cabinets perfectly. There was seemingly nothing out of place: each bottle was filled to the brim, the light shining off of the glass creating an irresistible quality about the alcohol that was being displayed. It shimmered in the light, causing a primal thirst for the drink in the deepest depths of the brain. Perhaps that was why he was drinking again; he thought he knew why he was pissing money down the drain: the bar, on a subconscious level, had hypnotised him into one more drink.

But he didn't regret it, as the drink allowed him to see things clearer than ever before, with a maddening simplicity that he wondered why he never saw while he was sober. He had to find something to live for. His life had become a mundane game of Monopoly, and he was on the verge of bankruptcy. He briefly wondered if he would receive a Monopoly board from his parents for Christmas. Probably not, considering throughout his life all his mother and father had ever given him on Christmas were lies and alcohol.

He sat at the counter opposite the cabinets, slowly musing over the hopelessness of his situation while slowly tapping on his vintage glass. The glass was thick, and created a dull clinking noise with every tap. It was the only noise in the bar-there was no music, and the other inhabitants seemed eerily quiet. They seemed to make no noise whatsoever: no laughter, no talking and not even the sound of shallowing breathing. It was dead silent.

There were four in total: the bartender cleaning empty glasses and polishing them to a gleam; a young couple sitting together, seemingly eyeing Kevin off; and a man sitting in the far end of the room, with a cigarette in his hand.

Kevin examined the bartender first. He seemed a Goliath of a man, with thick muscles that rippled at even the slightest of movements. The man appeared to be in his forties, with wrinkles that were slightly prominent on his forehead. These were made more pronounced by the fact that the man had no facial hair whatsoever: completely bald. He was dressed in a plain, black suit, with a white undershirt and a black tie. There was nothing overly eye-catching about his appearance, apart from the bulging muscles. He polished the glasses on the bench to a sparkling gleam, with dull, glossy eyes and a stern glare that occasionally roamed the insides of the bar, looking for any potential troublemakers.

The young couple, in their early twenties, sat close to each other. Both seemed to have long legs and had broad shoulders: they both had the appearance of athletes. The young man had his brown hair combed stylishly, while the woman's cascaded down her shoulders, with shimmering blonde highlights giving prominence to her chestnut brown hair.

Strangely, they both wore clothing that suited the era of the bar, but not the world. The man was dressed in a long overcoat, with a stylish dark brown suit that was adorned with buttons and frills. The woman wore a beautiful white dress, hugging her shapely body, whilst leaving room for her shapely legs to be move, which also followed her partner's pattern of many frills and buttons. The snow-white colours of her dress matched her pale skin appropriately.

In fact, both of them had freakishly pale skin.

Yet what unnerved Kevin were the eyes of the couple: dull and devoid of life like the bartenders, with a glimmer of something that he couldn't identify. Those eyes were trained firmly on the back of Kevin's head, and he could almost feel their gazes boring into the deepest and most private crevices of his skull. It was as if a crushing pressure had been put on his brain, and it unsettled him to a great extent. He did his best to ignore the sensation and turned to the final resident of the bar.

The final man sat alone, in a nonchalant manner, with a cigarette in his hand. Every twenty seconds or so he would take a long drag, put the cigarette on the table and seemingly sit in silent contemplation, until it was time to take another drag.

Yet that was all he could tell about the stranger: a plain black cloak covered him, and it was only from the size and width of the body that he could guess the stranger was male. There were no eyes to examine; no face to recognise: the man simply sat with a cigarette, puffing away until the cigarette had outlived its purpose. In this scenario, the stranger would promptly light another one and the cycle would begin once more. Kevin wondered if the stranger was scared of lung cancer, because at the rate he was going it wouldn't be long.

The woman growled loudly, the noise a rumble in her throat, causing Kevin to turn his head. It had been the first real sound in the bar since his entrance twenty minutes ago. "I'm so hungry," she moaned in a deep voice, positively dripping of seduction. "Can we please eat him?"

The man licked his lips thoughtfully, and suddenly Kevin felt the pressure in his brain develop into a throbbing headache. "I suppose it would do no harm. People like him aren't really noticed for their contributions to society, so nobody would notice if he disappeared."

No words formed in a Kevin's mouth, and his throat felt parched. He needed a drink of water badly but couldn't find his voice nor the courage to ask for one in such a strange situation.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't eat my customers," the bartender spoke, in a deep gravelly voice. His muscles flexed, but he otherwise made no move to scold the couple.

"Come on Finnick." The woman addressed the bartender, with desperation clearly palpable in her voice. "You know how things are for vampires now: we either have to consume animal blood, or face being exterminated by those fuckers in the Ministry. They treat us like animals, and don't realise that we crave human blood like they crave food. I haven't tasted fresh human blood in what feels like a lifetime."

The man piped up: "Nobody has to know, and if we're quiet the Ministry won't even launch an investigation. People go missing in this neighbourhood due to mortal quarrels all the time."

"What have you two been smoking?" Kevin asked incredulously, ignoring the beads of sweat that were gradually dripping down his forehead. "Bartender, are you going to allow these two cocaine addicts to make ridiculous threats against my life?"

The bartender laughed. "Livestock do not get an opinion on whether they are butchered or not. Why should you be any different?"

Kevin could not speak. The alcohol had inhibited his senses, but nevertheless he found himself slowly requiring the benches to support his weight as his legs failed him. He gazed weakly at the bartender, who had suddenly acquired the same glint in his eyes.

_Hunger._

"Are you with us Finnick?" the man asked again, standing up from his chair. He began slowly walking towards Kevin, with a predatory smile on his face. His steps were quiet but decisive: a hunter striding towards its wounded prey, not rushing into situations but savouring the moment before the kill.

On a subconscious level, Kevin's mind had been screaming at him to run. Survival instincts long dormant in his brain had been activated, and the urge to escape and flee was more prominent than ever. But the alcohol was like liquid iron in his veins, weighing him down. He couldn't listen to such messages that his brain was sending him, nor could he completely understand the gravity of the situation. He was paralysed not by fear, as some prey are when facing a predator, but from the alcohol that he had drunk to escape his problems. His saviour was his downfall.

The woman followed the man with quick, agitated strides, obviously not amused with the elongated hunting ritual. "This is your safe haven after all, and you've given us shelter and food against the dogs. It would be...impolite if you didn't feed before us after such a famine."

Finnick grunted. "You are being unwise. I want to devour this man whole, no questions asked, but if we were found out, imagine the ramifications. I have provided safety to our kind when so many have simply shut down their doors. The act of one meal may put my endeavours all in jeopardy. And for what? For a simple meal that we will one day be granted anyway?"

"I see your point," the man said while laughing. "But the dogs do not know of this place. Do you think they would have allowed it to go unregulated and unchecked? Only our kin know of your protections."

"It is easy for kin to misspeak a few words."

"I promise you, they would rather rip out their own tongues than betray their brothers and sisters to _wizards._"

The last word was stressed, and while he tried valiantly to hide the sheer disgust and loathing from years of oppression within the tone, it was all too clear for every resident sitting in the room. The couple stood with desperation on their faces, while the bartender stood with raised eyebrows. Kevin cowered in the corner, trying frantically to move his body but failing. The alcohol mixed with fear had immobilised him, and the idea that he was actually about to be eaten made his blood become cold and thick* weighing his body down with imaginary unbreakable chains. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the stranger was still repeating his cycle of smoking.

The woman finally lost all pretences of patience, stamping her high heels on the floor with enough strength to make the solid concrete floor crack and shatter. "Have you come to a decision?"

"Yes I have," Finnick said decisively, his eyes meeting Kevin's cowering ones. "It is my view on the matter that this fast imposed upon us by our 'superiors' should be kept in the matters of peace, and that to avoid further violence and bloodshed against our species, we have to pretend to adhere to their rules."

The woman growled in anger, but Finnick cut her off before she could speak: "However, there is no chance that the Ministry knows about this man. He is a mortal, and has no ties to magic in any way. He is alone, and judging by the state of his clothing, probably homeless. It would be no great loss to society if we drained him dry of his blood and relieved our famine slightly."

"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard, but if that's a yes then I'm satisfied," the man said, standing over Kevin's body while licking his lips.

All of a sudden, Kevin started listening to the survival instincts screaming inside his head, and in one fluid motion he bounded from the floor and attempted to run for the doorway. With supernatural speed, Finnick had already moved to block the doorway and smashed into Kevin's nose with a heavy fist. Kevin suddenly viewed the world in pure white as his skull smashed against the bench, staining the polished wood red and rocking Kevin's brain in the process. His body went numb, but he could faintly feel the trickle of his blood streaming down his face.

The bartender grinned, as did the couple: "I think it's about time we eat, no?"

The woman moaned in pleasure at the sight of the blood, running a delicate finger over the stream. She immediately put it into her mouth, and let put another moan as the tangible taste of human blood filled her senses with delight and sent her taste buds crazy. The copper taste invigorated her, and while she was formerly an aristocrat with high tastes, the lack of blood for long periods of time meant that any blood would have satisfied her cravings. Her fangs elongated as she needed more, and deeply desired to tear out the man's jugular and feast as the blood would pour from his mutilated corpse and into her open mouth.

Before the massacre had begun, the stranger finally stood up. He did it gradually, but even the tiniest of movements were detected by the vampire's keen senses. He snuffed his cigarette slowly, with a seemingly casual indifference to the bloodbath that was about to unfold right before his eyes, and met the bartender's curious glance, before announcing his presence by standing up. He was still covered by the cloak, but the leather combat boots and dark, tight-fitting jeans were on display.

The bartender, momentarily distracted from his potential meal, raised his eyebrow at the stranger: "Are you more fresh meat for us to eat?"

The couple, muttering curses at their feast being interrupted before it had even begun, faced the man. The stranger let a moment of silence pass, and then in slow, decisive motions raised his arms and lowered his hood.

His face was strong, with the jawline of a warrior and numerous deep scars covering his face. Stubble decorated the lower half of his face, giving him a more menacing and adult appearance. He seemed to be in his late twenties, with an untamed mop of hair sitting atop his head that was the colour of the darkest nights.

But it was the deep emerald green eyes, the same sickening colour of the killing curse, that identified him clearly and struck fear into their hearts.

"Fuck," the male vampire said with wide eyes. "It's the Reaper."

Harry Potter, under the persona of the Reaper, examined the vampires carefully: the American Ministry of Magic had recently gathered intelligence that a vampire stronghold had been found at the particular location of the bar he was in, that was constantly harbouring wanted vampire criminals and feeding them with the lowly muggle inhabitants of the neighbourhood. Naturally, when the Ministry wanted something to get done quickly and effectively they would call him in. It was typical of the hypocrites: they wanted things done but never wanted to get their hands dirty.

"So you've heard of me," Harry said coldly. "Then you know of my reputation. You three are under arrest for attempting to murder a muggle and plotting against the Ministry of Magic."

"There's three of us and one of you," the woman snarled, smelling the vile smell of nicotine on his breath. "You're mistaken if you think you can beat us."

"Perhaps," Harry said, without emotion. "If you're willing to test that theory. But I promise you, your* blood will be spilled today."

Finnick frowned at the lack of emotion on Harry's impassive face. "You can avoid any bloodshed today Reaper. Just leave us be, and I promise we won't even eat the man, and this can all be forgotten."

The woman growled at the suggestion of losing her buffet, but slowly nodded. The Reaper's reputation was well known: he was the coldblooded murderer of the supernatural, the Minister's personal weapon against those who transgressed him. The killer who butchered those who opposed him and his task without a single thought of remorse and a maddening grin on his scarred face. Nobody had lived from an assault by the Reaper. It was an apt name.

Harry's eyes bore into Finnick: "You lie. How many innocent victims have been butchered here? How many families have been deprived of their warmth and joy because of your fangs? If I let this continue, no doubt the outcome will be the same."

The female vampire charged at him suddenly, with unnatural speed and aggression. Harry to roll backwards to dodge her attack. She tried again, but he blocked her thrust with his elbow and smashed into her side with his own, sending her sprawling. She immediately twisted her body and got back up, her dull eyes starting to glow an intense ruby red.

Harry turned, watching the bartender and man morph into a fighting stance. They both bared their fangs: grotesque abominations of tooth enamel that dripped with saliva and blood, from newly split gums. The fangs weren't pretty, but they were large and powerful enough that if the vampires could get up close and personal, one bite would spell painful death from almost immediate blood loss.

Harry shrugged, a look of indifference on his face: "Let's get this over with. I have to be back in half an hour."

The female charged again, this time accompanied by the male. Harry dodged their assaults swiftly, trying to determine a pattern to their actions. There seemed to be none: young vampires relied solely on their enhanced strength and speed to attack rather than strategy. Older vampires, who were much more dangerous, combined the two to produce a lethal combination that had spilled blood over millennia.

Finnick charged at him, muscles practically quivering as he gathered momentum. Harry dodged the woman's swipe and grabbed her arm, flipping her directly onto him and used her as a shield. Finnick crashed into them, and while the brute of the charge was blocked, Harry could feel his spine rattle with the impact. The shattered bones of the woman were all too audible.

The man smashed into Harry's exposed side, causing him to grunt in pain and turn into an oncoming fist. It smashed into Harry's nose, the sheer strength of the blow carrying him backwards into the wall. He grunted at the impact that left the wall shattered, and Harry could feel the drops of blood that were steadily dripping from a cut above his eye. Another scar to add to the collection.

Finnick came in close, his fist crashing into the wall as Harry ducked the blow, and then countered with a kick to the ribs that felt like kicking steel. Finnick backhanded Harry, and immediately went for the throat. Harry dodged to the side, avoiding the fangs narrowly but he couldn't avoid the man. Finnick's shoulder crashed into Harry's ribs, causing him to collapse onto the cold floor. Harry could taste the blood in his mouth.

All three vampires were facing him now, the woman looking extremely worse for wear. However, they now exuded an aura of confidence: the sensation that surged through the veins of any creature after accomplishing something that hadn't been accomplished previously. They had practically defeated the Reaper, and Harry hid the grin that was threatening to form. This confidence would be their downfall.

_Step 1: Lure your enemy into overconfidence__._

"Not so tough now, are you?" the man leered, wiping blood off his cheek. The woman said nothing, choosing instead to glare at Harry with pure, undisputed hatred and loathing. Finnick looked nonplussed.

"I didn't expect you to show up Reaper, but I'm disappointed," Finnick said with a wry smile. "I expected more from a legendary warrior: the blood of Gods. Any simple muggle could put up a better fight then you."

He strode towards Harry, and grabbed Harry's head in his hands: "I told you that you could avoid bloodshed."

Harry nodded. "Yes, you did."

_Step 2: Eliminate the largest threat._

Before Finnick could squeeze, red symbols seared by blood and magic into Harry's skin began to glow a deep shade of crimson. They ran up his face, causing his emerald eyes to glow brighter. A vicious smirk had suddenly formed, and the vulnerability previously shown had suddenly been eradicated from existence as though it had been a mere whisper.

Quicker than the eye could move, Harry slashed with his hand. A flash of fine red mist sprang up from seemingly nowhere, as Finnick's head parted from his body. Feeling the cold steel in his hand, Harry kicked Finnick's head to the side and looked at the two vampires. The twin blades he held in his hand had butchered many of their kind: Devil's Kiss, he preferred to call it. It had an charm to it that aptly suited it.

The blades were forged from iron, and imbued with demonic energies. It had been a chaotic spell to perform, with many rituals and many sacrifices of dubious nature required. But with the magic imbued, coupled with the runes etched into his body, it had become extremely easy to dispose of any adversaries.

"Good evening," Harry rasped. "My name is the Reaper. And today, I will be your executioner".

_Step 3: Taunt your enemies into rash movements__._

The male charged again, fangs bared. A swift gesture saw him decapitated in the same manner as the bartender. To Harry, it seemed pathetically easy.

The woman, giving up all pretences of strength, cried out and cowered next to the body of her lover. Harry slowly strode towards her, casually tapping the blade against his side. His did it noncommittally, as if he had just used it for cooking a meal instead of murdering her brethren. Perhaps it was that easy for him, the man who had been said to conquer armies and burn their corpses singlehandedly.

She looked into the depths of his eyes, and saw no pity. No contempt. No disgust. No mercy. She looked deep into the eyes of her murderer, and saw nothing.

"You need not worry," he said casually. "You will be joining him soon."

_Step 4: Remove all remaining liabilities__._

The vampire shut her eyes and braced herself, before the cold steel plunged into her neck. She suddenly felt the very fires of hell burn deep inside of her, and screamed a primal scream. It was a raging inferno, spreading outwards from her neck, leaving only seeping agony and pain. She could feel her soul being dragged from her body by a malevolent presence, being clawed into a raging inferno that consumed everything in its path without relent or remorse. The sickening smell of sulphur and brimstone filled her senses, and visions of the Reaper filled her eyes. Then it was over, as the red eyes of the vampire slowly glossed over.

Harry sighed. Contrary to popular belief, he did not enjoy murdering other creatures. In fact, he despised it: and that was the reason that he continued to commit the most heinous of crimes; because Harry wouldn't do it. And he wanted to be as far away from Harry as possible. He had become what Harry had loathed: a bloodthirsty murderer. Who was he to deny such a fact?

But after the unspeakable deed was done, there was only pity. The Ministry had stripped these vampires of nutrients, in an attempt to 'domesticate' vampires into society. The consumption of human blood, both muggle and magical, had become outlawed and instead non-magical animal blood had been provided.

The vampire population had been divided: half wanted to adhere to the rules in an attempt to broker peace, whereas the other half had proclaimed blood war on the Ministry. The number of vampire related deaths-both muggle and magical- had risen by a large amount, and Harry was constantly being called in to deal with circumstances that had gotten out of hand. Basically, when the Ministry wanted a bloodbath they would send the Reaper.

He would never even considered doing such terrible acts in England. Even when faced against Voldemort, he had sincerely believed that killing should be only a last resort. His friends Hermione and Ron, as well as the influences of the great Albus Dumbledore had moulded his beliefs and his ideals to mirror that of a symbol for the light. Killing should be avoided: peace was the best avenue.

But the world wasn't black and white anymore. Things weren't simple anymore. Dumbledore's views had been misguided and misaligned. For the views of doing something solely for the purpose of "light" and "dark" was simply a guise shrouded in other factors.

He had left it all behind in England: his beliefs, his ideals and his life. And in America, he had found nothing but grey. Nothing made sense anymore: brutal murders could be justified in the name of good, ulterior motives seeped through the false pretences of "good" and "evil", and he was being forced to butcher vampires that were being denied of what they needed to survive. He was pioneering genocide.

Was it their fault blood was their food? If a man or woman was turned, not by choice but by force, was it the right thing to do to brutally murder them for seeking nourishment? What was he, the man who had killed children and women because it had been ordered by the "light"? There was no more Harry Potter: he had died when he fled England, and his new persona had become something twisted and misguided. He was running from the person he used to be. Running faster than ever before.

Nothing was plain and simple anymore. He had wanted peace, but he had simply gotten more confusion in its stead. He had run from his responsibilities, only to be given responsibilities for the most cruel and vile actions and decisions made. The world had become a dark place to live in, even if they proclaimed that it was an era of prosperity for the Wizards and Witches. While the other magical races suffered.

Harry gazed at his knives idly. How many atrocities had he committed with these blades? He had become stripped of every ideal and every belief he used to swear by. In what was seen as the "light" thing to do, he reasoned he had butchered as many creatures and wizards as Voldemort. Because he did it under the guise of the good, did that not make him a monster? With every kill, piece-by-piece, the blade had stolen his soul. He was now the Reaper both in name and in skin.

In the end, he supposed that one day his own blood would be spilled. And that was the day he could finally be true to himself and stop running.

Kevin's groan led Harry out of his thoughts. His eyes met Kevin's, causing Kevin to whimper and curl up, his salty tears pooling in a puddle and mixing with his blood.

Harry moved behind the bar, casually lighting another cigarette: "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you. I'll even buy you a drink. I don't think the bartender will say otherwise."

Kevin looked up with sore and puffy eyes, but didn't move his body. It was a massive shock to him: he had almost been eaten by things out of a horror story, and had almost lost his life. But this man, the man in the corner, had helped him. Kevin slowly moved his shoulders, sitting up slowly but never taking his eyes off the corpses of the vampires.

"You killed them", Kevin said, his voice barely a whisper.

"I did. Are you not grateful?"

"I am, I promise. It's just...you killed them."

"You said that before," Harry said unimpressed, pouring an expensive aged brandy into a single glass. "Have a drink. It'll make you feel better."

Kevin gazed at the cup, and with quivering hands grabbed the cool glass. His mind was still processing what happened, going at a million miles per hour and causing a splitting headache that seemed to roar at even the softest of sounds. He took a sip of the brandy, not even tasting the flavour.

"How did you do it?"

Harry raised an eyebrow: "Pardon me?"

"How did you fucking do it?" Kevin asked, his voice trembling. "They were going to kill me...holy shit, they were going to kill me."

"I decapitated them. It's the most effective way to deal with Vampires, as their healing properties are extremely strong. Don't want them biting me when I thought I had killed them."

Kevin nodded idly, taking another tasteless sip of his alcohol: "And you do this often?"

"Lately," Harry nodded. "Unfortunately, there's been a bit of an uprising. The Minister expects me to get my hands dirty and murder people in cold blood while he sits on his desk and preaches peace."

"Minister?"

Harry sighed, examining Kevin closely. Obliviate would be best used in this circumstance, to keep the International Statue of Wizarding Secrecy intact. He hated using the spell, but he would do it. Harry had learned to suppress his feelings a long time ago.

He supposed he could also kill the man, but he had received no orders to do so specifically and wanted to avoid further bloodshed. It was the most logical path to take, and the Ministry could easily handle any damage control with time to spare.

Harry slowly took out his wand: "Obliviate."

Kevin collapsed, his glass breaking on the cold floor. His head lolled backwards into unconsciousness. Harry looked curiously at the unconscious body. He wondered what was going through that man's mind; probably nothing. He didn't look all that bright.

He wanted to help the man, he really did. But there were other priorities to deal with, and if he didn't finish this job quickly he doubted the Minister would be pleased. While he didn't care about the Minister, it had been a slow week and his bank account had been running low. A reduced salary on this particular job would really piss Harry off.

Harry exited the bar, making a note that he would have to call the Ministry for a clean-up job. No doubt that Minister would be pleased-Dominic Lazar was a man who enjoyed sending a message, and this would resonate throughout the vampire community.

Not so much the deaths, for in the grand scale of things they were considered insignificant. Rather the fact that a stronghold location had been discovered and successfully raided by the Ministry without the Vampires having any prior knowledge of the attack. Which would beg the question: was there a mole amongst the Vampire ranks?

It was a good tactical advantage to have. Harry idly wondered when he started to think that taking someone's life had become insignificant.

He stared at the sky, deep as midnight with a spattering of stars. It was a beautiful sight, and with it came the sense of hope that somewhere in the vast world there was perhaps a place that wasn't fucked up. A place where the inhabitants lived in peace, in prosperity and in happiness. It was a fool's dream-but it was a dream nonetheless.

Harry Potter, under the guise of the Reaper, took one last lengthy drag of his cigarette before he let the butt fall to the ground. He tore his gaze from the midnight sky, and began walking back through the dirty streets, filled with cheap buildings covered in graffiti, and cheap prostitutes roaming the street in an attempt to establish themselves financially.

And as he did so, he had one last thought. He wondered, for the first time in years since he had run away from his life, if he could call himself Harry Potter anymore?


	2. Voices

**Big thanks to Cordelia Rose and EternallyBellaCullen for BETA'ing this chapter. **

The Minister of Magic cut an imposing figure, sitting behind a desk made of pure marble. It was adorned with phrases written in Latin that Hermione understood perfectly.

_Magic before blood._

He wore a completely white suit, with a red rose in his breast pocket. His hair was gunmetal grey, but styled in a way that gave him a youthful appearance. His cheekbones were high and poignant, and his chin was long and pointed. His blue eyes complimented his appearance, which combined with his natural charisma and charm created a Minister who could captivate his citizens and garner their full support.

He was a man who prided himself on his Wizarding heritage, but also respected the achievements of Muggles, and so strived to keep the Wizarding world prosperous and Muggle world safe from dangerous influences. A popular notion to have, and though the pure-blood aristocracy had vehemently protested at the beginning, his ability to always fulfill a promise when he spoke about furthering the development and capabilities of the Wizarding world eventually quelled the protests. The pure-bloods simply deluded themselves into believing that by keeping the Muggles safe they were making a statement that they were more powerful, and this satisfied them with the Minister.

That wasn't to say that he didn't have his flaws. He had a tendency to drawl when addressing his co-workers and his people formally. He was extremely racist towards other magical races, and vampires and werewolves were constantly being regulated. This was done under the disguise of "brokering peace" that eventually the species could curtail their dangerous habits and in doing so amalgamate into Wizarding society, but it was all too clear that the magical races were suffering. The crime rate for magical creatures had increased almost tenfold. Powerful and populous races like the Vampires and Werewolves constantly held vast protests against the Wizarding World.

But it was effective. And it was this quick and effective enforcement that, no matter how brutal, kept the Minister's popularity rating high. Actions were performed, promises were kept and the people were happy. In their eyes, the end justified the means without question, and the brutal murder of innocent members of magical species different to their own was just ignored in light of victory.

Dominic Lazar had been a popular choice for the Minister of Magic, but obtaining the power he had currently hadn't been through honest and decent means. Twenty years ago he had strolled onto the political scene under the guise of a foolhardy young man. Little did people know that his cunning and his mind embodied the beliefs of a pure Slytherin. People had tried to manipulate him, and in turn he had manipulated them and gradually morphed them into his own pawns, to gain political support and power. He still had them wrapped around his finger.

Ten years ago, he had become the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It had been a surprise to everyone for somebody so young to be given a senior position, but with a silver tongue and underhanded manipulations, Dominic Lazar was not only popular but he produced results every single time. Of course, many political bridges were burnt and he was trusted by almost nobody in his own department, because he exuded a false charisma and charm that disappeared the moment someone slighted him. But he was respected for his unwavering ambition and motivation, and seemingly never failed in fulfilling a promise.

Five years later, at only thirty-five years of age, he had been appointed the role of Minister of Magic. For someone without a distinguished background, a muddied ancestry and next-to-no political connections when he had first begun, his rise to power and his success had been a matter of debate between pure-bloods for a long time. Some believed that he was lying about his background and actually had many connections whereas others believed that his rise could be attributed to sheer luck. It was unanimously agreed upon that he certainly knew how to manipulate people.

Hermione had been debriefed back in England about her potential ally. Asking for help was not something she had been happy about, as asking other Ministries for help was a sign of weakness. Yet weakness was an understatement to what the English Ministry was experiencing.

A mere year ago, a new Dark Lord had begun to surface. It had been quiet at first: whispers and rumors with no substantial evidence or tangible proof that they were true: tales to scare small children around campfires.

Then the killings started, by an unknown assailant. Nobody knew the name, power or the motives: people of importance to the Ministry were found murdered without a single trace. People didn't even know the assailant's gender.

Kinglsey Shacklebolt, the previous Minister of Magic, had been found murdered in his own bedroom surrounded by defensive runes and enchantments. There hadn't been any magic involved, merely a surgical incision across the throat that had choked the Minister in his own blood.

There had been no evidence to suggest an assailant had even been in the room, let alone murdered the fucking Minister of Magic.

A meeting was convened before the murder reached the press, and Hermione suddenly found herself as Minister of Magic. The reasoning behind the appointment had been that she had proven herself capable during wartime and had played a major role in the defeat of Lord Voldemort ten years ago.

The pure-bloods had been less than amused at a muggleborn being appointed Minister, and constantly called for Hermione to be removed from her position. They would burn her at the stake if they got the chance. The Daily Prophet constantly printed derogatory articles about her and her decisions and, should she ever made any attempt to dissuade the accusations, she would be blatantly accused of abusing her power against the media and labelled a dictator for restricting freedom of speech. She felt powerless in what was meant to be a powerful position.

And the murders continued. Twice a month, a popular and influential person at the Ministry would be found inside their bedrooms, with eyes open and unseeing. People had started to become afraid, and while there had been no public and widespread attacks something even more devious had taken its place. Paranoia.

People at the Ministry had been terrified of the attacks, and were either leaving their positions or doing them to the worst of their abilities and instead focusing on protecting themselves. Duty to the people had been forgotten as the workers aimed only to protect themselves, and Hermione grew more and more restless as the Ministry she had been trusted to govern grew more and more incompetent.

Wizards had begun to doubt the English Ministry, and instead decided to trust the papers. The Ministry was seen as the enemy, and the murderer was being hailed as a hero for taking action against the 'corrupt agencies' within the Ministry. People didn't realise that if the Dark Lord decided to attack, the Ministry would be borderline powerless to protect the people. Even the Aurors had started to doubt the words of Hermione, being brainwashed by the constant media intervention.

Another war had started, only this one would be lost before the Wizarding world realised it had begun. A war not won through senseless violence, but through planting the seeds of uncertainty, then reaping the rewards as the Ministry collapsed in on itself. In fact, had Hermione not gotten wind that the vampire population had suddenly decided to band together she probably wouldn't even have branded the assailant a Dark Lord: this was the work of an anarchist. But with a powerful race seemingly banding together for no reason, Hermione had to assume the worst. It was her duty to do so.

Dominic Lazar was the type of man she hated. He was a smooth talker, a chauvinistic pig who could sweet-talk his way into the riches of the world. Normally, she would have refused to ever degrade herself to asking assistance from such a man. But the dealings between England and other countries had been under strain lately, and America had become the country most likely to provide aide.

So, after much debate, Hermione decided to swallow her pride and ask the Minister for help. Manpower, promises or even just reassuring words, the more the situation escalated and the Ministry faltered, the more chance the Dark Lord would emerge victorious. And that was not a chance Hermione was willing to take.

"You have come to see me rather abruptly, Ms Granger," Dominic said. "What is the reason for this visit?"

Hermione raised her eyebrow. "Surely you know by now, Mr Lazar."

"Humour me."

Hermione fumed. She was being taunted, and there was nothing she could do about it. If she wanted his help, she needed to gain his good graces. And with his shit-eating grin, it was obvious he was fully aware of that.

"There have been several murders of late in the English Ministry," Hermione began. "The frequency and ease of these murders is disconcerting to say the least, but it has started to pose a bigger problem."

"Which would be...?"

"Fear. My Ministry has lately started to ignore their primary duties to the Wizarding community and have instead chosen to spend their time protecting themselves. It has developed to the point where almost no work is being done: partly due to the fact that officials believe that the murderer targets people who are hardworking, and partly due to the fact that they are preoccupied with the pretences of keeping themselves alive. I have neither the time nor the people to replace my officials who are not performing. Everyone is wary."

"Understandable."

"Understandable but not acceptable. The Auror department is the only unit of my Ministry that operates anywhere near the levels that it should be, and even then productivity is declining at a rapid rate. The Ministry will be in shambles soon."

Dominic eyed Hermione carefully. He sat perfectly still, grin intact, but silently contemplated the best course of action to take. He had known her Ministry was in trouble, but not to the extent she had described. She was here to ask for help no doubt, but assistance such as providing manpower was expensive and there were seemingly no benefits whatsoever apart from improving the relationship between England and America and opening future possibilities for trade or assistance. However, the connection already existed to a certain extent and asking for large international assistance was only used in dire circumstances, and even then sparingly. He needed more information before he could make a decision.

He spoke, choosing his words carefully. "I assume that is not the extent of your problems."

"Unfortunately not," Hermione said, frowning. "I have reason to believe that a Dark Lord has surfaced in England yet again."

Dominic's grin disappeared. "I thought those were simply rumours."

"Unfortunately not. I have my theories, but the one I believe is that this Dark Lord is weakening the Ministry."

"Explain?"

"Our previous Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, was found murdered. He was an extremely capable duellist with survival instincts dwarfed only by the deceased Mad-Eye Moody. I was immediately put in a position of power without preparation or warning, and have been for approximately half a year. I have been vulnerable this whole time. Why have I not been murdered in this time? Surely I would be an easy target."

Dominic remained quiet, so Hermione continued. "This new Dark Lord did not kill me because he or she doesn't need to. I am a Muggle-born, I am unpopular because I am neither sociable nor charismatic, the pure-blood population views me with as much contempt as the Muggle population and the media has decided to crucify me due to my Ministry's ineptness, to the point where Wizarding Society believes it is a good thing that my officials are being murdered, because they were viewed as corrupt.

With each murder, in my already unpopular state, the Wizarding World turns against me. They do not listen to the warnings I give, and any rule registered and implemented by the Ministry has come to be perceived as a joke. Our prisons are undermanned, understaffed and were it not for the tireless workings of Head Auror Ronald Weasley there would be escapes nearly every day. We cannot protect the people, as they do not want to be protected by us, and the time is fast approaching when the Ministry collapses and the Dark Lord has unprecedented reign of Great Britain".

"I do not want to sound harsh Ms Granger," Dominic interjected. "But I do not see how this concerns me."

Hermione's eyes grew cold. "Mrs."

"Excuse me?"

"Mrs Granger. And you, Mr Lazar, are an ignorant piece of shit! People are going to be suffering under oppression, with a Dark Lord they do not even realise is there attacking them, then shifting the blame onto the Ministry. There shall be blood and brimstone the moment the Ministry collapses, and nobody realises it. The war has already begun."

Dominic went to speak, but Hermione cut him off. "The vampire population has suddenly grouped together, ending ancient disputes, in what appears to be an army. Should Great Britain be conquered, there is no guarantee that the Dark Lord will stop. America is famous for abusing vampires: what's to say they won't attack you? You can handle your own infestation due to one man's efforts alone, but the population of two countries, plus dark wizards seeking blood and power, will be too much for your pathetic Ministry of practically one to deal with. You will lose your life, you will lose your people and you will lose your country! Is that what you really want Mr Lazar, simply because you want to pretend that this problem doesn't concern you?"

Hermione suddenly grew very silent, trying to regulate her breathing to calm herself down. Silently, she cursed herself. She was always so headfast and strong, willing to solve problems on her own without any assistance, but the one problem she couldn't solve would mean the end of Great Britain and consequently the world. She had lost her composure in front of the one man that could prevent the whole situation.

Dominic was furious. How dare anybody address him like that? He was tempted to hex her into oblivion, to teach her a valuable lesson in life; never badmouth your superior. However, the more he pondered her words the more he realised that she was correct.

Vampires did not settle blood feuds easily, and contrary to popular belief they did not enjoy the company of other vampires. They had a unified sense of identity against the Wizards, but after that they would gladly rip each others throats out at the smallest sign of aggression. For them to somehow forget all past transgressions and band together was devastating news should the vampires decide to attack America.

While the American Ministry was fairly stable, the transgressions committed and unfair regulations imposed against magical creatures were well known, and the vampires currently residing in America would no doubt jump at the chance of a legitimate opportunity to massacre both the Wizarding population and muggle population. This was the nature of such bloodthirsty creatures.

"I do not appreciate your mannerisms Mrs Granger," Dominic said, stressing the 'Mrs' and making his contempt fully audible. "However, I do see that if the situation escalates in England it may become a problem for us in America. What is it you propose?"

Despite hating the man, Hermione jumped at the chance of an olive branch. "I need manpower I can trust. Somebody who can work in the Ministry, whoever you can spare, that can make my officials see that in their hands they hold the lives of the many. Trust needs to be re-established between the Wizarding Population and my Ministry, and to do that I need hardworking people who aren't afraid to die."

"Everybody is afraid of death, Mrs Granger."

"There are those who would face it without fear. I once knew an extraordinary man who would have given his own life just to save his friends and the Wizarding World when he could have ran away so easily. They are the people I need Minister. They are the people I can trust."

It was obvious whom she was referring too. Dominic wondered how she would react if she knew Harry Potter worked under the roof she was currently under, that they might even meet each other in the corridors? Actually, he would much rather see Harry's reaction. No doubt there would be a body count.

Who should he send? Dominic was acutely aware that Hermione was practically asking for his whole Ministry, but that was never going to happen and she knew it. He needed to send people, who would not only have a profound impact in England, but wouldn't detriment the American Ministry in any way.

But if he did that, then there would be no doubt that no progress would be done in England. Those who he had in mind would no doubt lose their focus at the first sign of danger. The situation that Hermione described had been dire, and if he wanted to bring the English Ministry back up on its feet then he needed to send in the heavy hitters: those who could get the job done.

Could he do without Harry for a few months? The vampire-related incidents had risen, and it was the Reaper's duty to deter the violence. In other words, massacre those filthy beasts that killed. He would have to give up his largest weapon simply on the pleas of a Minister he had never previously met and had come to detest. She could be lying to him in an attempt to garner more power. It was a possibility.

The choice was there: either give up his biggest weapon to a woman he neither knew nor trusted and hope that he could fix the situation, or retain said weapon and send someone who was good but ultimately expendable.

Yet the doubt lingered in his mind. For if she was telling the truth, and the situation in England was bad, as she had described there was every possibility that the imaginary Dark Lord could mount an attack on America. Should that happen, there was no doubt that the magical creatures wouldn't side with the Ministry. He had the chance to cut the weed at its roots before it spread and killed every fucking thing.

He came to a decision. "Mrs Granger, I will accept your request but I will only send one person to your aide. He is extremely capable, is not afraid to die and will do what you wish him to. However, he is required at this Ministry."

"One person? Lazar, has everything I've told you been a joke?"

Dominic ignored her impoliteness. "Mrs Granger, this man is the equivalent of a one man army. His name is the Reaper." Hermione's eyes widened.

The Reaper. Ten years ago, coinciding with Lazar's rise, the Reaper had suddenly stormed into the Hit-wizard world with death following him like a shadow. Nobody survived the Reaper's onslaught, and almost all the countries had heard rumours of his feats,

Etched with runes and twin blades, he had quickly gained a reputation as a merciless and coldblooded killer who took orders from no operators. Nobody in the Ministry could tell him what to do, and any Hit-wizard who tried to do so quickly found himself in the hospital with numerous knife wounds. Put quite simply, nobody fucked with the Reaper. He listened only to Lazar.

And now he would also listen to her. "Is he as dangerous as the rumours say?"

"If only you knew, Mrs Granger. Now, if you excuse me, I have a few important matters I have to attend to. This meeting has severely derailed my schedule. The Reaper shall arrive tomorrow at this exact time. Be prepared."

And with that, Dominic Lazar left his office leaving Hermione Granger to pray that she had finally found a solution to her problems.

* * *

><p>Harry Potter trained in a simple room. The walls were made of brick, and the room was adorned with equipment useful for honing both physical and magical prowess.<p>

Sweat dripped down his well-toned chest as he pounded at a punching bag with vigour. The dull thud of flesh on leather created a hypnotic rhythm. Three jabs, then an uppercut. Rinse and repeat. He added in variations, such as kicks and elbows, but every fighter had a fundamental pattern that they followed in a fight without question and Harry was following his. After years of training, it had become an instinct.

That wasn't to say he ignored magical training: magical training was important, but it was all too easy to find yourself in a position without a wand, and there were only two practical solutions when such a situation arose.

Wandless magic, which required the utmost precision and concentration to perform even the most minute of tasks, was one possible solution and Harry had called upon it many times. But unexpectedly getting up close and personal against your opponent, especially against pureblood aristocrats who hadn't ever thrown a punch in their lives, was as effective as it was satisfying. Extremely.

"If only you had taken that approach against Lucius. That would have been the definition of satisfying"

Cedric stood beside Harry, leaning casually on a practice dummy. He was grinning cheerfully, as though he was experiencing the happiest moment of his life right there. Harry poignantly ignored him, having past knowledge that if he didn't give the fire any fuel to burn it would slowly fade. Ignoring his personal ghosts may have been unhealthy, but it was the easiest way to get rid of them.

"You can't ignore me forever Harry," Cedric said with his Cheshire smile. "That's another three vampires you added to the pile today. Three vampires starving because of unfair laws, but you just go and butcher them. Bravo, my friend, bravo. I wonder if they're waiting for you in the depths of hell, waiting to string up your flesh or rusty hooks as you sizzle?"

Harry pounded the punching bag harder, gritting his teeth. Cedric sighed, moving slowly and putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. Should anyone else have seen the proceedings, they would have simply seen Harry standing alone in the room. But the weight of Cedric's ghostly hand made Harry's muscles freeze, and he could see it perfectly fine.

"Would you mind kindly removing your hand?" Harry asked, his voice as cold as ice. Cedric laughed, but did as was requested.

"But of course, Harry. You and I, we see eye to eye. Except for this one little problem."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Care to enlighten me?"

"You've changed Harry. You can feel it, can't you? All your emotions, all the things that weighed so heavily upon your consciousness, suddenly making one hell of a racket inside your head. You locked them away, only they want to be free. They want you to return to the person you were."

"I'm sure you're aware that I left my life to change the person I was."

"Yes, but at the end of the day you're not the Reaper. You're Harry Potter. You can't run away from that fact, no-matter how many people you slaughter in your stupidity."

"I'm becoming something else, you said it yourself. I have been for ten years. This world doesn't need Harry Potter, Cedric. Just look at what it did to you."

Cedric grinned, causing Harry's anger to rise. "I'm not Cedric. You can't lie to me Harry."

"I made my choice a long time ago."

"No. Your choice was to run from your name, not become a remorseless murderer. You could easily have been Hadrian Evans; started a new peaceful life; met a nice muggle girl, but no. You, Harry Potter, went seeking out the bloodshed. Remind you of anyone?"

"Bite your tongue," Harry said, visibly shaking with anger. "Or else I'll remove it painfully."

Cedric persisted. "What's your body count now, hmm? How many people have you slaughtered over the years? You used to keep count, do you remember? You used to mourn over every soul you were forced to kill; it would keep you up at night: now it's just another faceless body to add to the graveyard. Voldemort was a creature of pure evil, but you're worse. Because you were Harry Potter, child of the light, and now you're something worse than the person you defeated. You are a Dark Lord, Potter."

Harry went deathly silent. "Shut up."

"Every vampire cowers when you enter a room. Every mercenary wouldn't even dream about taking you on for all the money in the world. They fear your name, Harry, the name you took when you decided to run away. I hope even your thick skull can see the resemblance."

"I'm not Voldemort. I did not choose my name, it was given to me."

"But not once did you protest, did you? You just accepted it. Look at you Harry-you're a miserable failure, a creature that nobody could love. You tried to run from Harry Potter, and you ran right into the arms of Voldemort. He beat you Harry: his ultimate victory was your downfall. Even in death he is victorious."

Quicker than lightning, Harry had Cedric pinned against the wall. Fully aware that he looked utterly insane, Harry's eyes bore into Cedric's with pure hatred as he squeezed thin air.

"Go on Harry," Cedric said with a raspy voice. "Kill the spare!"

The muscles in Harry's body froze and his arms went limp. He had been about to kill Cedric, despite longing for years to have him back. It was his fault that Cedric had died, and instead of being thankful for his return Harry had been about to take his life all over again.

He had lost too many people: too many people he cared about. Cedric, Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, Hedwig, Moody, Dobby, Fred: even his own fucking parents had died for him. The name Harry Potter wasn't a blessing; it was a curse. And had he not fled, it would only have been a matter of time before one of his friends lost their lives again because of him.

There hadn't a moment that went by that Harry hadn't about those he had lost. There hadn't been a moment where Harry wasn't grieving. In his nightmares, he could still hear them calling his name; asking him why he hadn't saved them? Asking him why they had to die while he got to live?

He couldn't bear the nightmares back then. Another person he held dear to his heart added to the pile would have been too much.

So he ran from the voices. He locked away Harry Potter into the deepest, darkest depths of his mind, sealed the door and threw away the key. The Reaper was born that day; a man who was prepared to kill everything in his path to achieve his goal regardless of morals; a man who repressed all positive emotions; a man who was feared by all who crossed his path.

But now, the voices inside his head were knocking on his door and it seemed like they would keep knocking until he unlocked the door and let Harry Potter live again.

Fuck the voices.

Harry looked at Cedric, eyes momentarily filled with pain, before he straightened and composed his facial features.

There was no room for weakness.

"You're still in there Harry," Cedric said, with his infuriating grin. "You couldn't kill me. I'm going to keep knocking until you realise who you truly are. Realise that the Reaper is a fallacy."

"I don't need to listen to you. I've gotten over you Cedric: accept that fact and leave me in peace."

"Why do you continue to lie? You may have locked up who you are, but I can still see deep inside your mind. In the darkness, you still see us. You still mourn for us. You still hear us, calling out and crying for help. No matter how fast you want to run, you can't outrun who you really are. You need to face your ghosts Harry: only then can you be at peace."

Harry was about to reply, but was interrupted when an owl entered the training room. The brown-feathered owl gazed at Harry with piercing blue eyes, before hissing and dropping a letter in the room. It fluttered erratically, as if struck by lightning, and fled the room. Harry wasn't disgruntled; it was actually a reasonably friendly reaction. Owls, being creatures of wisdom, didn't enjoy being in the vicinity of demonic energies. It was too volatile for them, and Harry was the definition of volatile.

Harry picked up the letter, examining the eggshell white parchment. There were only three words on the paper, written in thick black ink: "Come see me".

Only one person knew of Harry's location, and even then letters were only sent on the most urgent of occasions. Shit must have really been hit the fan if Lazar was summoning him outright. Usually, the Minister would just Portkey to Harry's hideout.

Harry turned to Cedric, incinerating the letter with a quick flick of his wrist. He didn't need a wand to do so. "I'm on a mission. If you would be so kind as to leave me alone, it would be much appreciated. If not, keep quiet and stay out of my way."

Without a second glance, Harry left the training room leaving Cedric alone. Cedric's smile vanished instantly.

"Harry, Harry, we both know who you really are. You may have locked the door, but it's going to come crashing down sooner or later. And I promise, I'll be the one kicking."

* * *

><p>Lazar had his back turned to Harry. He stood rigidly, looking outside a window into the sprawling suburban cities built by Muggles. The lights twinkled against the black canvas of night, but there were no stars to frame the picture. Pollution was rife.<p>

Harry remained silent, awaiting orders. He reached into his left pocket, and pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. He promptly lit the cigarette, idly watching the smoke float upwards. The taste of nicotine filled his mouth as he took a long drag, and pocketed the lighter. The Minister's flare for the dramatic, while amusing, was time-consuming and due to the apparent promptness of the letter Harry wondered why he wasn't speaking.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lazar turned to look at Harry with tired eyes. His words, however, betrayed no lack of vitality whatsoever. "Reaper, I have a very important mission for you. It's...an unconventional case, but extremely important."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should tell me the mission then, Minister."

"Perhaps..."

Harry waited for more, but Lazar simply continued to look at him with a blank look on his face. Harry stared back, taking another drag of his cigarette, causing Lazar to sigh. "If you wish to continue smoking such vile materials, you shouldn't do so in my office."

Harry got sick of waiting. "Stop procrastinating Minister. What is the mission?"

Lazar sighed again, rubbing his eyes. "Today I was contacted by the English Minister of Magic. It appears that she is having trouble with a potential Dark Lord on the horizon. During a meeting, she convinced me that it would be in America's best interest to lend assistance. So I decided that I should send you."

Harry just stood there, looking at the Minister with an incredulous expression. Send him to England? Was the Minister out of his fucking mind? Lazar knew why Harry had fled England: Lazar was the one who had granted Harry political asylum and then changed his identity, and now Lazar was sending Harry back to the place that he had been avoiding for the past ten years.

"Minister," Harry said through gritted teeth. "With all due respect, you can go fuck yourself."

Lazar's eyes narrowed, and he not so subtly placed his hand on his wand. Harry knew the man didn't like to be talked down to, and he most certainly didn't like it from people who weren't his equal. But Harry didn't care, and his hand slipped down to one of his blades to match the gesture.

"If you think you can beat me Minister, do so", the cigarette fell as Harry spoke and snuffed it beneath his foot. "But we both know you can't so tell the English Minister of Magic that she can jump off a bridge."

Lazar barked a laugh, and then backed down. Though he considered himself a competent dueller, he knew that in a magical fight he was no match for Harry. "Do not think this is me turning on you Harry. From her explanations and extra background research, it does seem as though the situation in England is quite dire and could very quickly spread to America. This is a case of needing to send in my best operative, not goad the Reaper into returning to England."

Harry considered the Minister's thinking pattern. If there was a situation that needed to be solved through...undiplomatic solutions, then he was the one to send in without question.

Yet what happened if he saw his friends again? How much would it affect him in a life-threatening scenario? Emotions long repressed would come to the fore causing Harry to be in the worst possible state should a fight arise. What happened if another one of the people he once held dear died while he was there? That was what he had been trying to avoid in the first place.

But those were the thoughts of Harry Potter, and he was no longer Harry. He doubted his magic even recognised him as the man he used to be. If he encountered his old friends, they were simply acquaintances that he could interact with but never fully form a connection. He needed to stay unbiased and without any liabilities: that was the code he lived by, and the code that had led him to isolation.

This was just like any other mission, and it was finally Harry's chance to prove to himself who he really was. Was he still Harry Potter, or was the Reaper in charge? He honestly couldn't tell anymore. But he knew who he wanted to be: and committing the same atrocities that he had in America in England would be the best way to prove it to himself.

He could finally get over his friends, and shut up the guilty voices that crowded inside his head every time he closed his eyes. Perhaps this mission was a blessing in disguise. Besides, Harry had no idea if he would see his friends again. Perhaps Ron and Hermione had ended their fleeting relationship and decided to live their lives in other magical communities far away from each other; perhaps Neville had been eaten by a gigantic magical plant; perhaps Ginny could have found some exotic stranger and eloped to another country. There was no guarantee he would see them.

Not that he wanted to see them. They brought back memories he would rather forget. But he would have to deal with those memories if he wanted to forget Harry Potter completely and reduce him to a mere whisper on the wind.

He would have to stop running.

After much deliberation, Harry spoke. "What exactly is the mission?"

Lazar smiled thinly. "Officially, you are there to help the Minister regain footing in her Ministry. Due to constant murders of her officials, including the previous Minister of Magic, her staff would rather protect their own necks than do their jobs properly. Coupled with trial by media, and constant pure-blood slander, the current Ministry is perceived as a joke by witches and wizards and their rules are almost never followed. After doing further research, magical crime-rates in England are sky high and in Knockturn Alley people have been reported to go missing on a regular basis. Your job is to aid the Minister by getting her Ministry back on track through any means necessary, and work closely with the Aurors to lower the crime-rate."

"Unofficially?"

"Powerful vampire families, who have held each other in constant contempt, have been rumoured to have suddenly united. I don't know how much truth there is, but I've heard the same rumour from more than one source and that is extremely troubling."

"Do you want me to eliminate them, Minister?"

"No, no. I may hate the creatures, but there is no substantial evidence that they have done something wrong. If you can find substantial evidence that something is amiss, report back to me immediately and we'll form a plan of attack. Should these vampires attack America, it would be extremely difficult to deal with them."

Harry nodded, prompting Lazar to continue. "I have arranged a Portkey to activate in 6 hours; that should give you enough time to prepare. It will take you to your meeting destination: a Muggle airport, to hopefully not arouse any suspicion. It's in a secure location, away from Muggle eyes. There, you will meet with the Minister and she will explain things to you in further detail."

It was a shame things had gotten so bad in England, Harry thought. Then again, the people who had condemned him when he was competing in the Triwizard Tournament and the masses that had flocked against him and called him a liar when Voldemort returned were in power now. It wasn't a far stretch of the imagination to imagine them fucking everything up with blindness and stupidity.

It always came down to him having to fix people's problems. Only this time, he wasn't being manipulated and he could do things the way he wanted to. Unconsciously, he ran his hand through his unkempt hair. This would be interesting, to say the least.

Lazar offered Harry an aeroplane ticket. Harry grasped it, immediately feeling the magic imbedded deep within the inanimate object. This was the Portkey. Harry pocketed the ticket, and began to walk out of Lazar's office.

"Harry," Lazar spoke, causing Harry to stop mid-stride and turn, "I don't want people to know what you look like. Make sure you use a really strong glamour charm, or at the very least a mask."

Harry didn't bother to reply. He simply turned and walked out of the office. If he was going to complete this mission, then he would need to stock up on supplies. And hopefully get rid of a pesky voice inside his head that had a tendency to wear Cedric's face.

The door closed behind Harry, and Lazar let his facade fall. The blank look on his face had turned into a frown, and uncertainty had entered his eyes. Harry was a wildcard, and he hoped that his mercenary had his emotion affairs in order.

"It's a pity," Lazar mused, talking to no-body in particular. "That he didn't ask the name of the English Minister of Magic.

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